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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021370">our coming of age has come and gone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson'>objectlesson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And its Occupants are Queerer, Bag End is a Queer Place, First Time, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:22:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Always, Sam is worrying that he cares too much. Always, Sam <em>knows</em> that he cares too much. But he doesn’t know <em>how</em> to treat Mister Frodo how he would treat any other master he <em>wasn’t</em> in love with because he has no other master and he simply <em>is</em> in love with Frodo. So, he is stuck forever-wondering if his seams show. If there is straw poking out. If the crows fear him, or are only pretending. “My dear Sam,” Frodo sighs, thumbing back and forth over the hewn pattern in his mug. It is a large earthenware alehorn Thorin made, and there are dwarfish runes carved into the sides. Sam has loved this mug since he was a child, and would trace the shapes with the tip of his fingers, wondering what mysterious things the runes held inside, what they meant. If they were love poems to Bilbo, which he chose to believe, at first because it felt scandalous, and later, because it gave him hope. If he has the option to choose the mug he brews tea for Frodo in, he still chooses this one. “You take such very good care of me,” Frodo murmurs. </p><p>“Well, yes, sir,” Sam says, blushing. It is my job.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>388</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollyknox/gifts">mollyknox</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ok so like, on the basest most self indulgent surface level, I started writing this because I felt bad for myself because I tripped and fell?? off my own porch??? and twisted my ankle and now its sprained and I am pitifully couch-ridden most hours of the day. BUT I ALSO wrote this because I've been ruminating obsessively over childhood friends to lovers as a trope and why it hits me so hard as a lesbian and the answer lies somewhere between Taylor Swift's Seven and THIS essay about Wuthering Heights: </p><p>As Jacques Blondel pointed out, we must always keep in mind that ‘the feelings are formed during Catherine’s and Heathcliff’s childhood’. But even if children have the power to forget the world of adults for a time, they are nevertheless doomed to live in this world. Catastrophe ensues. Heathcliff, the foundling, is obliged to flee from the enchanted kingdom where he raced Catherine on the heath, while Catherine, though she remains as rugged as ever, denies her wild childhood: she allows herself to be seduced by the easy life personified by a young, rich and sensitive gentleman. (...) So, when he returns rich from a long journey, Heathcliff is prepared to believe that Catherine has betrayed the sovereign kingdom of childhood to which, body and soul, she belonged with him.<br/>(Literature and Evil, Georges Bataille, tr. Alastair Hamilton)</p><p>I get that so hard, like it punches me in the stomach. I as a writer am obsessed with writing about first loves and teenage love and the messiness of childhood crushes before you know what they mean and I've gotten SO much flack for it tbh and I'm always writing defenses for myself but it's all right here: transgressive, societally-unacceptable loves (like queer love, or love between members of different classes like Cathy and Heathcliff and Sam and Frodo) can exist and flourish only on the constraints of childhood because that's where rules don't apply with the same force and cruelty. Children, in some ways, exist outside society. Picture me in the weeds when I would scream ferociously whenever I wanted. </p><p>Anyway this story is a meditation on childhood love, and class difference, and queerness, and wishing badly that you could return to a before-time where you were innocent and felt what you felt fearlessly. I wanted to examine all the ways in which Sam and Frodo would BOTH feel predatory in their respective roles they've adopted in adulthood. Sam fearing he's taking advantage of his position as Frodo's trusted servant, and Frodo fearing he's taking advantage of his position as sam's master and social superior. Both of them yearning, in some impossible way, to go back to a time when these things did not matter so much, and they hardly noticed the ways in which they were different. </p><p>Lastly, I continue to be obsessed with the ways in which elder-gays model love for younger people who think its impossible, and also found family, and safe spaces, and Bag End as a queer place, protected by magic, where alternate histories than the ones you and I read or that recorded in the Red Book can be told. </p><p>Also I wanted to gift this to my friend Molly because it was her wonderful story In All the Ways That Were (I would link but can you believe I'm just that fucking computer illiterate I don't know how?? I can deworm a horse but I cannot link to something I'm sorry) was the thing which kickstarted me thinking about class so much in regards to Frodo and Sam. There's a early chapter in her fic where they're in Rivendell discussing their newfound romance and Sam is imagining it carrying out in the Shire much in the same way it's carrying out here, where different rules apply, and Frodo reminds him that it cannot be this way, they when return home. He speaks to the ways in which his reputation as a Baggins (Bag End!! is a Queer PLACE!!) alongside his class will lead people to believe he is forcing Sam into an arrangement and that was just such a galaxy brained take I COULD NOT stop thinking about it and so I had to put my thoughts SOMEWHERE. Molly I hope this story feels like it does that theme justice &lt;3</p><p>ANYWAY. That was so many words I'm sorry!! Here's the story!!! I will be telling more of it!!! There will be kissing and perhaps even more than kissing!!! I'm not sure yet! enjoy!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>—-</p><p> </p><p>One moment, Sam and Frodo are heading out the door and down the stone steps outside Bag End to meet Merry and Pippin at the Green Dragon, and the next, Frodo is spilled flat out on his back in the rose-bushes flanking the porch, clutching his knee to his chest and gasping, eyes wider and dark and stricken.</p><p>Sam registers that his master is in pain, and immediately drops to his knees, all thoughts of ale and merriment out of his head, chased to nothingness by pure, blinding worry. “Mister Frodo! What happened?! What hurts? Are you cut?” His hands hover somewhere nebulous and unspoken over Frodo’s trembling body, because he does not feel comfortable touching without explicit permission. Otherwise, he would check for blood. He would figure out what’s the matter, right away. It’s frustrating, when the way he loves Mister Frodo keeps him from taking the very best care of him possible, because he is forever worried about something crossing a line.</p><p>“Not a cut, just—ah. A sprain. Maybe even a break, I heard something snap,” Frodo grits out, holding up his right foot. Sure enough, the flesh around the knob of his ankle is puffy looking, even in the faint lantern-light. Sam winces. </p><p>“Ok, keep it raised like that and don’t move, Mister Frodo. I’ll get something from the house to prop it up, you just stay still and keep breathing!” he says before hurrying off, back into the shadowy halls of Bag End. </p><p>His fingers shake as he relights his candle, his heart pounding in his chest. Mister Bilbo and Thorin left several days ago, down the road and towards the Lonely Mountain for the holidays, leaving Frodo alone here as the master of Bag End through winter. Frodo and Sam are far from the fauntlings they once were, and Sam <em>knows they </em>can take care of themselves,  but somehow, Thorin and Bilbo’s yawning absence in the house has Sam suddenly reeling: he cannot remember where Bilbo keeps his herbs, which chair is considers an antique and which is safe to drag outside so that Sam can elevate Frodo’s injured ankle. He wanders around in a panic for a few seconds before deciding it’s alright if he scuffs up Grandpa Mungo’s chair a little bit, and puts it under one arm, while grabbing a marmalade jar with the other. Then, he hurries back out. </p><p>“Here you go, set it up there,” he tells Frodo, studying his stolen ankle. “How does it feel? Where does it hurt? It’s swelling something awful.” </p><p>“It’s alright, it’s not—I don’t think its broken,” Frodo says, though his face is still pale, dark hair stuck to his brow with a sheen of sweat. Sam’s fingers itch to brush it away but instead he holds his breath, gingerly pressing the cold marmalade jar to the most swollen bit of Frodo’s ankle in lieu of ice. “Ah, that feels nice,” Frodo hisses, even though his face is still a mask of pain. “Thank you Sam.” </p><p>“Now, you keep that jar there Mister Frodo, and your ankle up, just like that. I’m going to run down the path a bit to see if I can catch Daddy Twofoot on his way to the pub so he can tell Mister Took and Mister Brandybuck we won’t be making it tonight. A shame, really, I was looking forward to that frothy mug of beer.” </p><p>“Sam, you can go along,” Frodo tells him, brows pinched. “I’m sure I’ll be well enough to hobble back in once the swelling—”</p><p>“Nonsense!” Sam cries, shuddering at the mere thought of leaving Frodo alone. Plus, save for the beer, the only reason he wanted to come tonight <em>at all</em> was so that he could be close to Mister Frodo. That’s why he does anything, really, on any night: so that he can be wherever his heart is. He used to think the terrible longing when they was apart was born only from a desperate need to serve his master, but he’s older now, and with age came a terrible, aching sort of wisdom: he knows he loves Frodo, in the same shameful, silent way Mister Bilbo and Thorin love each other. And because of that, he wants to <em>be</em> where he is. Whether that happens to be drinking at the Green Dragon as their knees touch under the table, or here, under the stars, tending to his injured ankle. “I’ll be right back. Don’t try and move it,” he warns.</p><p>And then, he races down the street to intercept Mister Twofoot, who stumbles to and from the Green Dragon every night,  as steady as clockwork. </p><p>—-</p><p>Frodo has not moved by the time he returns, though he’s shivering. Sam tries to catch his breath, shouldering off his jacket so that he might drape it over Frodo’s quaking shoulders, even if it’s a tattered dirty thing, and looks silly on such a fine gentlehobbit like Frodo. “I caught him,” Sam wheezes between gasping inhalations. “He said he would tell them what happened, but we’ll see if he actually manages to remember. He was drunk, already. I fancy Daddy Twofoot is drunk almost always.” </p><p>It’s a strained smile, but a smile nonetheless, there on Frodo’s lips. Sam’s heart leaps like something secret taking flight in the dark. “I think I can stand, if you help me,” he says then. “I can hop on one foot and lean my weight on you.” </p><p>“Alright,” Sam says in a steady voice, though nothing about him <em>feels</em> steady. It is a lot of contact, working one arm around Frodo’s back and hauling him up, stabilizing his wobbly body as they they slowly make their way up the steps. “There,” Frodo says, frowning down at their bare feet. “That bit of frost there—that’s what I slipped on. And to think, just yesterday I was so excited for the signs fall was coming.” He chokes out a self-deprecating laugh, and Sam’s palm flattens along his spine, guiding him in past the door before shutting it behind them. “What a fool I was.” </p><p>“You’re not a fool, sir! It was only an accident. Good thing I’m here to patch you up,” Sam says, hiding his blush in his own sleeve as he helps Frodo collapse into Bilbo’s tired old arm chair. The fire has died down, but there are still embers glowing in their bed of quiet grey ash, so he kneels upon the sooty hearth to stoke them to life again. </p><p>“Yes, it was a very good thing,” Frodo says softly, picking at a loose string on Sam’s jacket, which he is still wearing draped about his shoulders, like a cape. He smiles again, but this time is is a small thing, a sad thing. Sam wishes he could thumb over it. Kiss it into something fuller, perhaps. Instead, he feeds some kindling to the fire, and wipes the bits of bark clinging to his calloused hands on his trousers before standing. </p><p>“You just sit there and relax, Mister Frodo. My Old Gaffer rolled his ankle last summer, and I made herb compresses for it every night. We’ll get it feeling better in no time, I promise you that.” </p><p>“Will you stay the night?” Frodo asks softly, brows arching over his ice-blue eyes. </p><p>Sam’s stomach drops, but he presses on. “Well yes, if you’d like me to, sir.” </p><p>Frodo nods <em>yes, </em>and so, that is that. </p><p>—-</p><p>Since Frodo is safely inside and Sam has specific, outlined tasks ahead of him, he manages to find his bearings amid the storm of worry which blinded him before. He hums as he puts the kettle on for tea, and in doing that remembers where Bilbo keeps his medicinal herbs. Then, he sits by Frodo’s side, grinding some comfrey, St. John’s Wort, and yarrow into a yellow-green poultice. “We’ll put this on your ankle to bring the swelling down,” he explains. “And I’ll make you some tea from Turmeric root. That can help with the pain, too. Does it hurt very badly, Mister Frodo?” </p><p>“Only when I move it,” Frodo explains, wiggling his toes. “It looks quite awful though, doesn’t it?” </p><p>“You’ll have a nasty bruise,” Sam agrees as he fixes Frodo’s drink. “Mister Bilbo has some nice arnica cream, I’ll rub that on for you once its not so swollen. I know m’only a gardener, but I can be very gentle when I need to be. I won’t hurt you.” He hands Frodo the mug, avoiding his eyes before they are so <em>dark</em> right now, searching him as they flicker goldenrod with fire-light, like he can see through Sam’s concern to the shameful core that motivates it. </p><p>Always, Sam is worrying that he cares too much. Always, Sam <em>knows</em> that he cares too much. But he doesn’t know <em>how</em> to treat Mister Frodo how he would treat any other master he <em>wasn’t</em> in love with because he has no other master and he simply <em>is</em> in love with Frodo. So, he is stuck forever-wondering if his seams show. If there is straw poking out. If the crows fear him, or are only pretending. “My dear Sam,” Frodo sighs, thumbing back and forth over the hewn pattern in his mug. It is a large earthenware alehorn Thorin made, and there are dwarfish runes carved into the sides. Sam has loved this mug since he was a child, and would trace the shapes with the tip of his fingers, wondering what mysterious things the runes held inside, what they meant. If they were love poems to Bilbo, which he chose to believe, at first because it felt scandalous, and later, because it gave him hope. If he has the option to choose the mug he brews tea for Frodo in, he still chooses this one. “You take such very good care of me,” Frodo murmurs. </p><p>“Well, yes, sir,” Sam says, blushing. It is my job.” </p><p>—-</p><p>When the poultice is ready, Sam presses it between two thin laters of muslin, neatly combs the hair of Frodo’s foot into a part, and ties the muslin around his injured ankle like a tourniquet. “That’s not too tight?” he asks, gingerly prodding at the knot. </p><p>Frodo shakes his head. “It’s perfect,” he says. Then, he studies Sam, tongue passing over his lower lip. The tip is stained yellow from the turmeric, Sam helplessly, foolishly wonders what it might taste like. “I am sorry we didn’t make it out to the Green Dragon tonight. Feel free to help yourself to the beer barrels in the cellar if you’d like.” </p><p>“I don’t—I’d like to stay in my rightest head, sir, if you don’t mind. So that I can care for you.” </p><p>And again, that sad, strange black flickers over Frodo’s eyes. Like a shadow. “Thank you, Sam,” he says. “Would you like me to read to you?” </p><p>And Sam <em>would</em> like that, he <em>always</em> likes it when Frodo reads to him, and he can get lost in the lovely, lilting hills and valleys of his voice, which is silken and floating, like something carried away on birdsong. Bilbo has been telling them stories since they were fauntlings, and on the rare occasion Thorin might sing them a song or share a Darrow folktale, and Sam used to think nothing in the <em>world</em> could top that the particular sort of magic he felt cuddled up to Frodo by the hearth in Bag End, imagining trolls and dragons and goblins and great cities on fire. But then, once he learned his letters, Frodo would read to him too. Out in the garden while they laid under the sun, or down by river that cut through Hobbiton towards the Bywater, or perhaps nestled in the thicket Overhill, where they would count fireflies in the summer once the sun set and it was too dark to make out the words on the page. And that was a whole <em>new</em> sort of magic. Even then, Sam liked to close his eyes and imagine Frodo’s voice right up by the shell of his ear. Telling secrets. Whispering them so no one else in all the Shire could hear. Mysteries like the Darrow runes. </p><p>Being read to feels like a pitiful, childish thing to ask for tonight, though. And anyway, Frodo is <em>hurt, </em>and Sam can’t let him do something nice for <em>him</em> when he must be tended to. “But—but you’re hurt,” is what comes out when he answers. </p><p>Frodo laughs. “Only my <em>ankle</em> is hurt, Sam, my eyes and voice are working just fine. I could read. And it might be nice, actually, to take my mind off of the pain.” There is a pleading note to his voice, so Sam nods, happy to give Frodo anything he wishes. </p><p>“I’ll go then, and find a book for us to read,” Sam says, hurrying off to Bilbo’s study. When he returns, several options stacked high under his chin, he finds Frodo sitting with his eyes closed as he thumbs over one of the buttons of Sam’s jacket sweetly, as if it is something semi-precious. </p><p>Sam’s heart tumbles, just a little, to notice he is still wearing it at all. </p><p>—-</p><p>Frodo reads aloud and Sam listens, untying the muslin so that he might apply a generous layer of arnica to Frodo’s bruise. it glistens in the flicker of the fire, white on the purple dappling of his skin. Several moments pass before he realizes Frodo has gone quiet, and it looking at him. “Am I hurting you?” he asks, hands springing away as if burnt. </p><p>“Oh no! I’m—I’m sorry I stopped reading. I was just. You feel nice,” Frodo sighs, shaking his head, looking troubled. It is another moment of silence before he adds,  “I was only thinking that I am not very good at being the Master of Bag End, and that part of me wishes Bilbo were here.” </p><p>“I think you’re wonderful at being the master of Bag End,” Sam promises. “I wish he were here too, though, if only so he could show me where the ice box is. I know there’s something for chilling in the cellar but I couldn’t find it down there when I looked. And then I got spooked. Bag End feels so large and echoey and strange without your Mister Bilbo and Thorin.” </p><p>“Another part of me is glad they’re gone, though,” Frodo says quietly after awhile, shifting in his seat. “It’s a bit like—one of our sleepovers, when we were fauntlings, don’t you think? Just you and I, staying up well past our bedtimes, sneaking a candle into my bedroom so we could reading stories together under the covers,” he explains. Sam gets a little jolt in his heart just remembering those nights—back when they were only friends, and his Old Gaffer alone served the Bagginses. Back then he <em>knew, </em>of course, that Frodo was a gentlehobbit and he was merely the common son of a gardener. That they were different, in so many ways. But still, it was easy to <em>forget, </em>in the way only children do: losing their real selves in make-believe games, clacking their wooden swords together pretending them were elves or warriors, rescuing maidens, finding treasure.</p><p>“That was a lifetime ago,” Sam mumbles. “But it also feels like—just yesterday. Like I could reach out and touch it.” He regrets that bit as soon as it leave his lips, though, because it feels like a confession, somehow. Like he should not be speaking of <em>touching</em> anything, when his fingers are pressed to Frodo’s bruise, nestled in the roots of the soft curls of his feet. He pulls away, coloring. “What does that have to do with being the Master of Bag End while Mister Bilbo is away? I told you, sir, s’not your fault you took a tumble on the steps.” </p><p>“I just—I don’t think I’m very good at being in charge of things,” Frodo says, tightening Sam’s jacket around his shoulders and leaning over. Then, his face changes, becomes a willful mask of good humor. “Oh Sam, I <em>know</em> you said you didn’t want anything from the cellar, but my ankle aches something awful and <em>I</em> certainly would love a mug of ale,” he begs, brows knitting together. “Please? Let us pretend we’re children again. Sneaking sips from the tap.” </p><p>Sam reels back, bewildered, overwhelmed . “I beg your pardon sir, but why are you asking me? Why, it’s <em>your</em> ale. You don’t need permission.” </p><p>Frodo sighs, then sits back with a flop. “See. I do not act like the Master of a fine estate.” </p><p>“I think you’re doing a right good job, Mister Frodo. Maybe you’ll grow into feeling so the longer they’re gone,” Sam offers. He ties the muslin back on, and notices his hands are shaking again. All this talk of the past and of drink and of their<em> roles</em> here in Bag End have him thinking too much. Or else, not thinking enough. Rushing ahead into the fool’s territory, lost in idle dreams.</p><p>“Well then, dearest Sam,”  Frodo says, cocking his head and forcing a smile. “As my doctor for the night, what do you say? Is some beer a suitable medicine for my ailment?” </p><p>“As long as you let me help you walk and keep you steady after the fact, I don't see why not,” Sam eventually concedes. “Might even help the pain a bit.” </p><p>He ends up brewing them hot toddies with brandy in spiced tea, instead, since he’s too irked by the darkness in the cellar to venture back down. Frodo does not complain. His cheeks pinken and his smile grows slacker, his voice more animated as he reads aloud. Eventually the fire begins to die, and they both start to shiver a bit as a draft pries its way under the door. </p><p>“You should have a nice bath,” Sam suggests, helping Frodo up. He feels heavy and sweet in his arms, unbearably warm. Furthermore he smells of brandy and herbs, and <em>oh, </em>Sam wishes so many things. He wishes for skin beneath bare finger-tips, and the feel of soft dark hair sifting through his palm like knotgrass. He wishes to kiss Frodo’s swollen ankle better, like he could mend it with his lips, suck the pain right out like a snake’s venom. Instead he sighs, and guides Frodo to the washroom. “I can run the water and put some herbs in to help the soreness. And then we can stay up reading, or sleep if you’re tired. Just tell me which room you’d like me to sleep in.” </p><p>“My bed is quite large enough for two,” Frodo says then, voice syncopated as he hops. “It could be like when we were young.” </p><p><em>Except we’re not young, not anymore</em> Sam thinks, throat tight with a dual mess of alarm and yearning. “Whatever you’d like, sir,” he says, since it’s the safest thing to answer with, every time. </p><p>—-</p><p>Soon, the room is filled with fragrant steam, and Frodo’s curls are frizzy in the humidity. “I’m afraid I’ll need your help to undress,” he says to Sam, face pinched and apologetic as he unbuttons his shirt and twists it off over pale shoulders. “I’m not sure I can get my trousers off alone.” </p><p>Sam nods, face burning fiercely with embarrassment as he hastily adds some soap to the bathwater, until the surface is coated in a thick later of bubbles. That way, he cannot see anything beneath it, even if his eyes move beyond his control, desperate for crumbs, for whispers, for dandelion fluff blown out in a wish. “Of course. I’ve got you Mister Frodo, just lean here…step out—and there. Perfect,” Sam talks his way through it, and does not look, cannot look, must not look, <em>will</em> not look. </p><p>There is a flash of long slender legs, creamy skin, something dark and downy between the peach softness of Frodo’s thighs, and then—finally, his waist sinks into the water and he is eclipsed in bubbles. Sam lets out a great, shuddering sigh. “Do you need anything else, sir? Shall I bring your book in so that you can read in the bath?” </p><p>“No, Sam, thank you,” Frodo says. There is a hesitance lingering in his features, though, so Sam hovers in the doorway, waiting until he blurts out. “Could you stay with me, perhaps?” Frodo asks, eyes too bright. “I know it’s silly, I’ve lived here since I was young, but. Like you said, Bag End is large and echoey and strange at night without my uncles. My mind plays tricks on me and I see things in the shadows.” </p><p>Sam, who was counting on getting to slip outside and take some deep breaths to steady his racing heart, sinks onto a dwarf-carved mahogany bench beside the tub instead, and crosses his ankles. “It’s no trouble at all, Mister Frodo,” he lies. “I shall stay.” </p><p>And so, he does. </p><p>—-</p><p>Sam’s cheeks burn the whole bath. They burn afterward, too, when he helps Frodo out and towels him dry, stunned to reverent silence at the way his usually pale skin is stained, like a summer flush. He blames his own red face on the heat, too. “Shall I open a window, so we’re not too hot?” he says, wringing his hands as Frodo combs his own hair.</p><p>“It’s alright, my room will be cooler. It’s from the steam,” he says. He’s leaning on Sam, and his skin is dewy, lovely, too pink. Sam stares at the thick rafters of the ceiling, and realizes he’s never noticed the dwarfish runes carved there, too. </p><p>“Do you know what those mean, mister Frodo?” he asks, pointing upwards to the intricate markings. </p><p>Frodo follows Sam’s outstretched finger with his eyes. “They’re for protection,” he explains, voice soft. “I know a little khuzdul. Not much…it’s a secret language, after all. Uncle Thorin wasn’t going to teach me any, at first, but after Bilbo incorporated Elvish into my studies he said, <em>no son of mine will know more of </em>their<em> language, </em>so, he taught me a bit. These runes are like a blessing…to keep bad energy out of Bag End. And to wish prosperity upon the family dwelling beneath this roof.” </p><p>Sam’s eyes sting a bit. It’s such a nice thing to think about, having semi-magical dwarvish protective wards woven into the very fabric of the house. Mister Thorin and Bilbo aren’t <em>like</em> anyone else in the Shire, and Bag End bears the physical proof of their difference. It’s comforting, he thinks, on some level. To know rafters like this exist here, in Hobbiton. That difference does not catch fire, or become exorcised. It simply exists, hidden away from view, tucked into darkness. </p><p>Sometimes, the idea of even two Gentlehobbits together living as a family feels impossible to Sam, but here in Bag End, he can dream of such things, and even <em>beyond</em> them if Bilbo left for the wild ten years ago and came back with a Dwarvish once-king on his arm. Anything is possible, in a house protected by magic. </p><p>Still, he does not imagine anything out of the ordinary might happen, tonight. He knows his place. He’s knelt there for a long, long time.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Second part of this! There is ~sex but it isn't ~smutty so I don't really know what tags to use? I feel like its been a minute since I straddled the matura/explicit rating so much. Anyway. This takes place in a universe where the ring has already been destroyed because Thorin made Bilbo a pretty wedding ring so he didn't need his magic ring from the quest anymore so he gave it to Gandalf who was like wait....lemme git rid of this brb. Anyway everyone gets to live happily ever after because thats we roll in this house of denial! </p>
<p>thank you for reading this friends!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frodo looks small, out at sea in the vast white storm of his bed, his foot propped up on several cushions Sam brought in from the sofa. There certainly <em>is</em> room enough for another hobbit beside him, but—but Sam still hovers awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands jammed into his own back pockets nervously. “I don’t have a dressing gown,” he admits, needing an excuse for why he is stuck here, eyes downcast. </p>
<p>Frodo smiles. “You can borrow a dressing gown from my Uncle Thorin. It will be too large for you, but I worry mine would be too small. They’re in the bottom drawer of the dresser in Bilbo’s room.” </p>
<p>Sam pads off, taking note of the way his heart spins and trips in his chest as he side steps past the four poster bed Thorin and Bilbo share. It seems like a sacred place—a site of mystery, and intrigue, and scandal. But as he looks at it, there’s nothing odd about it at all. It’s a bed like any other, worn and cozy, strewn with hand stitched quilts. He wonders which side they each sleep on. If they hold each other at night, the way he dreams of holding Frodo, when he drifts off with his own lumpy pillow under his arm like an impossible dream. </p>
<p>The dressing gown he takes out and unfolds smells like sandalwood and soap, and it actually fits him perfectly. This makes him nervous:  wearing Thorin’s things, standing in Thorin’s bedroom, on what is, perhaps, his side of the bed. He wants to do <em>right</em> by Mister Thorin, somehow. Perhaps because he loves Bilbo the way Sam loves Frodo. Perhaps it is because he is different, the way Sam feels different, but manages to live here in Bag End alongside the Bagginses. Perhaps it is because he is a heart-stoppingly handsome fellow with ice-blue eyes, and Sam has always been a little afraid of him. Whatever the reason, he nods quietly to the bed as if there were ghosts there watching him, making sure he does not take anything without paying proper respects. Then, he returns to Frodo’s room. </p>
<p>It’s warmer in here, even after Frodo snuffs the candle and cloaks them in sudden black. “Can you feel your way over?” he asks, voice delicate in the darkness, far-away like a sound of a distant bell ringing. Sam makes his way to the bedside following its sweet chime. </p>
<p>“Yes, Sir,” he says, as his knees bump against the mattress. He gingerly climbs in under the covers, careful not to jostle Frodo’s injured leg. “How’s your ankle feeling?” </p>
<p>“A little sore, still, but better,” he whispers, breath hot against Sam’s shoulder, making him shiver. Reflexively, Sam stiffens as Frodo wiggles closer. “You’ve taken wonderful care of me, Sam.” </p>
<p><em>Of course, it’s my job, </em>is that he should say, but the words stick in Sam’s throat. He cannot stop visualizing Thorin and Bilbo’s bed, the lived-in slope of the mattress, the indents of their shapes even though they weren’t there. However, before he’s able to say anything at all, Frodo clears his throat and murmurs, “I know you—you do all this because you must. But I want you to know I appreciate it all the same.” </p>
<p>It’s too dark for Sam to make out the familiar sadness haunting Frodo’s eyes, but he can hear it in his voice, the far-away threat of tears like the smell of rain on an incoming breeze. He hates to hear Frodo sounding regretful of anything at all, so before he can stop himself he answers, “I beg your pardon sir, but even if you weren’t my master, I would be tending to your ankle the exact same way.” As soon as he says it blushes immediately, grateful for the darkness for making him invisible. He shouldn’t be talking about a version of their world where Frodo is not his master. It seems disrespectful, presumptuous. He is about to apologize, when it happens: </p>
<p>Frodo carefully, carefully lays his hand upon Sam’s chest, where Thorin’s dressing gown buttons are rucked open. </p>
<p>Instantly, Sam’s heart picks up under the weight of his palm. “You would?” Frodo asks, voice wavering, like the reflection of water glittering on the side of a cave. Or, at least how Sam imagines such things. He’s never been in a cave, of course. He’s only heard Bilbo’s stories about them, and closed his eyes to see the image there, inside himself. </p>
<p>“Yes I would,” he admits in earnest, blood roaring in his ears. </p>
<p>“Sam,” Frodo mumbles, and it almost comes out sounding like a crushed sob. His fingers flex against Sam’s bare sternum, then creep over to lay over his heart.  There, they press gently. “It always beats so fast, when I touch you,” he whispers. Sam can feel the heat coming from Frodo’s cheeks, feel his terrified, labored breaths and—<em>I’m sorry, </em>Sam thinks to say, because he <em>knows, </em>he knows his body gives him away. He knows there are things he cannot conceal. But they are the same things <em>Frodo’s</em> body is doing now, that confuses everything, muddles what he thought he knew.“What would you do, if you did what you <em>wanted, </em>and not what I asked of you?” Frodo asks. “Anything different?” </p>
<p>“Yes,” Sam breathes.  Maybe, <em>maybe, </em>he thinks. In this protected house, with its Dwarvish runes, its hidden love stories, its hidden <em>love.</em> “I would—but—I can’t <em>say</em> it. It’s not a thing you can say.” </p>
<p>“Show me, then,” Frodo murmurs, rolling onto his back and tugging Sam with him, breath coming out in nervous, brandy-sweet gales. </p>
<p>And Sam <em>does, </em>but <em>so, </em>so slowly. As slow as molasses creeping out of the bottom of the jar on a very cold day. As slow as winter rolls in as seen from the last days of August. He leans over Frodo in the night and dips closer, and closer, and closer, studying his face as his own eyes adjust to the darkness, watching him to see, if any point, he realizes what is about to happen, and stops Sam along his descent. </p>
<p>He doesn’t, though. He only breathes, chest rising and falling and trembling, lips slick as he licks them over and over again, his gaze jumping from Sam’s eyes, to Sam’s mouth, and back up again. </p>
<p>The whole time, Sam’s heart is rabbiting. It does not stop, when he finally kisses Frodo. He thought it might give out, but it keeps stuttering on ahead in his chest, beating itself bruised against his ribs. He cannot care, though, because Frodo is kissing back. Sliding careful fingers up into his hair. Cupping his cheek. Opening his soft soft lips so that Sam can slot their mouths better, and suck in his exhalations. “This is what I’d do,” he clarifies at some point, their whispers dancing in the tight, hot space between their faces. “Every day, one hundred times a day, if I could.” He touches Frodo’s chest, then his throat, then his cheekbone, and he finds that it’s damp, that the glistening in his eyes has been squeezed out each time he blinks. He thumbs the wetness away. </p>
<p>“Oh Sam,” Frodo murmurs, pulling him back down, pressing the slant of his nose into Sam’s hot cheek. “You can. You can.” Then he turns his head just so, and they’re kissing again, but this time it’s wet and tastes of turmeric and spiced toddy and Sam is so terribly dizzy with each hungry press of Frodo’s tongue he feels like he’s floating away. Like this has been a dream all along, and he must memorize every second of it, before the dawn steals it away.</p>
<p> “Your ankle,” he murmurs with worry as Frodo presses him into the mattress and straddles him, mouth hot and sharp and perfect somewhere on his neck. “Mind your ankle, mister Frodo, you don’t want to hurt it, you can’t—”</p>
<p>“My Sam,” Frodo chokes out, as he palms down the length of Sam’s arm where he has it pinned over his head. “It never hurt that badly, I—I must confess. I only wanted an excuse for you to keep touching me like you were. Caring for me. Looking at me like I’m what matters most to you in the world,” he explains, his hips shifting against Sam so his vision is suddenly eclipsed in static, body a wreck of heat and pleasure and overwhelm. “Say that’s what you <em>want</em> again—not what you must do.” </p>
<p>“Oh,” Sam murmurs, breathless. “It’s what I want. It’s…Mister Frodo you don’t need an excuse. You <em>are</em> what matters most to me. And well, not because I work for you, but because, because you’re wonderful. And because I love you.” </p>
<p>Frodo trembles on top of him, suddenly growing still as he sucks in great staggering breaths from the ditch of Sam’s neck. “And I love you. I love you terribly, I have since we were children and didn't even know what love was, Sam, I thought—I thought that was the only place it could exist. But here you are.” </p>
<p>Sam palms down Frodo’s spine, trying to keep up, to process, to comprehend something which feels, at its core, incomprehensible. Something he’s told himself for decades would always be just out of his grasp. </p>
<p>But Frodo is <em>here, </em>now. In his arms. Bearing down on top of him. Bath-warm and very soft save for where he is delectably stiff as he shifts and ruts against Sam’s thigh, like a miracle. “Here I am,” he promises, and the last syllable gets swallowed up, as Frodo turns and kisses him silent again. </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>It’s all much more <em>wet</em> that Sam ever thought such things would be. Wet like a storm, like a flood, like a downpour, like a hot spring. There is spit on his chin, on his neck, drying in a beautiful shining trail down the soft round curve of his stomach. His thighs quake and tremble,  because Frodo is between them, like a revelation. His mouth is the wettest, slickest, hottest thing in the whole of the world, and Sam clutches at his hair and gasps, trying his hardest not to come apart in shudders. He sees stars, and more stars, until there is nothing at all in the universe but stars, and wet. He lets himself be swallowed up by them,  drowning, dand when they clear, Frodo is still there on his stomach, head pillowed on Sam’s hip bone, eyes bright and wonderful in the dark. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing his way up Sam’s side and into his underarm, where he nuzzles, sweet and ticklish. “Did you like it?” </p>
<p>“It was—it felt magical. Like my heart was touching yours.” It was so much <em>more</em> than that, too, but Sam doesn’t think there are words for it. Not words that he knows, anyway. Only pretty words, secret words, words in other languages, words between the pages of Bilbo’s dusty old books. Maybe words don’t matter that much, though, not when Frodo is <em>touching</em> him like this, hands greedy as they smooth over his stomach, his chest, his neck, his shoulders. Into his hair, where they make needy fists. </p>
<p>“Sam,” Frodo breathes, and then he’s on top of him again, kissing him again, each press of his mouth soft and slick and increasingly desperate. Then he takes Sam’s hands, which are still clenched in the sheets, and places them on his own hips. “Do you want to touch me?” </p>
<p>“More than anything,” Sam rasps, thumbing experimentally under Frodo’s dressing gown, to the burning smoothness of his skin. It’s <em>so</em> soft. Sam’s mouth floods, his heart going mad in his chest. “I don’t know what to do, really, I haven’t—”</p>
<p>“It’s ok,” Frodo says gently before kissing him. “There’s no right way, I just want you to do what <em>you</em> want. What you’ve thought about doing with me, if you’ve thought about it all.” </p>
<p>“I hardly let myself,” Sam admits, rubbing his swollen lips down Frodo’s neck, inhaling the smell of his hair, body feeling trembly and alight with potential.  “It felt improper, to think of you like that. I stopped myself.” </p>
<p>“It’s not improper,” Frodo breathes, aligning his hips just right and rubbing into Sam’s thigh, exhalations coming out tattered, mouth open and panting and pretty. “Tell me—you wanted to kiss me, didn’t you? On the lips? Did you want to kiss me anywhere else?” he murmurs, fitting himself into Sam’s hands, exhaling to fill them. His eyes are bright and yearning, a sort of wildness to them, like his desire has stripped his decorum. It’s beautiful, and Sam can hardly believe any of this is happening. </p>
<p>“Oh, Mister Frodo. Yes. Everywhere,” Sam breathes, face crumpling, heart lurching. He’s realizing now that these are things he <em>has</em> imagined—but nebulously, through a mess of shadow and haze. He knows they’re things Bilbo and Thorin do, for example, but he’s never gone further than knowing that <em>whatever</em> they were, he would like to do them with Frodo. There is nothing he doesn't want from him. Nothing he would say no to. He brushes a nervous palm up the ladder of his ribs. “Just show me. Show me how to make you feel good. How—how to make our hearts touch.” </p>
<p>Frodo tastes faintly bitter and salty when he presses his tongue into Sam’s mouth, like his hunger has stolen the sweetness of the brandy, sharpened it in desperation.  But then, Sam realizes that taste is <em>him </em>on Frodo’s tongue, and his cheeks burn, his stomach plummeting like he missed a step. Frodo pulls away gasping and rolls into his back, struggling out of his dressing gown, and there he lies in the moonlight: pale chest heaving, sweat dewy on his thighs. He guides Sam into his arms. “I dream of your hands on me,” he whispers against the shell of his ear, pressing close so their pulses flutter together like birds’ wings. Sam cannot believe how lucky he is, how <em>marvelous</em> Frodo feels, warm and real and hard in his palm, as he carefully curls his fingers around him. </p>
<p>The world becomes a blur of bliss and breath and kisses, then. Frodo whimpers and Sam swallows up every sound, hungry for his gasps, his whines. It comes naturally. It is not so different from picking flowers, clipping thorns off of rose stems and arranging them just so. When Frodo finishes he trembles like an earthquake against Sam’s chest, and it’s so beautiful it just about breaks Sam’s heart. But the taste of the stickiness on his fingers and the press of Frodo’s mouth after the fact patch it right back up again. </p>
<p>“I love you,” he tells Frodo as they lie on their sides, Sam with his arm curled around Frodo’s naked waist, palm spread open over his chest. He likes the way Frodo fits against him so perfectly, the sharp line of his spine cushioned in the own softness of his stomach. It is like they are fashioned perfectly to nestle up against each other this way, two measuring cups nearly tucked together in a baking drawer. “I’ve loved you always and I’ll keep loving you always. Even if the world ends.” </p>
<p>“The world won’t end,” Frodo says sleepily, yawning and settling back into Sam before bending his head down to kiss the callus of his thumb. “We’ll live long happy lives, right here in Bag End, protected by the rafter blessings,” he promises, gesturing loosely towards the ceiling, lashes fluttering against the still-flushes spot of color on his cheek. “And I will love you always, too, my dearest Sam.” </p>
<p>And any future seems possible, with Frodo’s injured ankle trapped between Sam’s feet, and his breath sweet and hot against his wrist. The darkness settles over them like a blanket of snow and as Sam’s eyes grow heavy, his breath matched effortlessly to Frodo’s, so when he inhales, Frodo exhales, and they trade filling one another’s vacancies, easy and rhythmic like waves against a shore. </p>
<p>Eventually, Sam sleeps, and he dreams of so many years stretched ahead of them both, every single one sunshine-bright, and safe. </p>
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